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Stillman’s Run
BY the time that Van Alstyne and his party had got back to their camp, the deserter, Fagan, had recovered his senses, though still a bit woozy. Otherwise, surprisingly enough, he showed no ill effects from his terrific tumble.
“I didn’t think he’d have a sound bone in his body,” Ben Gordon asserted. “He hit that ground like a ton of bricks.”
Van Alstyne at once hurried off to confer with Major Isaiah Stillman, square-faced, straw-haired commander of the militia force of three hundred men. The two of them put their heads together and agreed to call a drum-head court-martial immediately. Van Alstyne himself was to act as judge-advocate, by authority of his rank as an officer in the regular army of the United States. Stillman and four other of his volunteer officers were to comprise the court, which had complete jurisdiction in all cases, including capital offenses in time of war.
The sullen Fagan was duly arraigned before this court, but refused the offer to testify in his own behalf. Principal witnesses called against him were Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three other troopers. After hearing all the evidence, the court deliberated for ten minutes, and then declared itself as ready to report.
“What is the verdict of the court, Major Stillman?” asked Van Alstyne, amid the most intense quiet from the soldier audience.
“Guilty, sir!” replied Stillman, in a firm voice.
“Stand forth, Fagan,” sternly ordered Van Alstyne, “and receive your sentence.”
“It is the order of the court,” went on the Major, “that the defendant, said Patrick Fagan, be taken before a firing squad of eight soldiers tomorrow morning, May 15th, at daybreak, and shot dead, as punishment for desertion and giving aid and comfort to an enemy in time of war.”
The doomed man was then taken from the court, mouthing horrid threats against all concerned, and bound to the wheel of a heavy wagon within the camp. To make him doubly secure, a soldier with fixed bayonet was delegated to stand guard six paces distant. Fresh guards were to be posted each hour.
As for Van Alstyne, he now had a chance to acquaint Major Stillman more fully with the facts regarding the Sac messengers and their flag of truce.
“So the Hawk sent us an ultimatum?” chortled Stillman, as he ushered the Captain into his tent.
“Yes, Major,” smiled Van Alstyne, “the red upstart says it’s either get out, or he’ll put you out.”
“I don’t envy him his job, Captain. My men are spoiling for a fight with these Sac butchers. It will be as easy for us as sticking pigs.”
“Why, of course it will, Stillman. That red trash can’t stand up to white soldiers. What rot!”
“You’re quite right, especially a picked force such as I have. Crack shots, every one of them, and bold as bears.”
“They look to be a hardy breed,” observed the Captain.
“That they are. Not the kind of men who will scare easily, or turn tail at the whiz of the first arrow. I dare say that any one of them could whip three Sacs in a hand to hand fracas.”
“Ha! I only wish, Major, that the Sac roustabouts would try an attack on this camp.”
“Not a chance, sir,” scoffed Stillman. “Our position is too strong for them to risk an assault.”
“It is, indeed, a strong position,” nodded Van Alstyne, “camped in this grove as we are, with open prairie for two miles all around. It’d be suicide for the redskins to charge us. We could pick them off like pigeons.”
“You say that your detachment of sixty troopers will come up from Dixon’s Ferry today?” asked Stillman, suddenly changing the subject.
“Yes, I so ordered. They should be here by evening, at the latest.”
“Good! we will rest them overnight, and then make a quick sally against Black Hawk tomorrow. We’ll whip him soundly and put an end to his big notions. The gall of the red rascal, thinking he can scare us!”
Van Alstyne now left the tent, to lead away his horse to the south side of the grove, where all the mounts were picketed. He had been gone only a few minutes, when young Ben Gordon burst into the tent, his face aglow with excitement.
“Sac horsemen, sir!” he cried. “Charging across the prairie!”
“Bosh, lad!” the Major exclaimed, nevertheless jumping up from his campstool. “Probably another white flag!”
“No, Major! the Sacs mean business this time! fully armed and painted for battle!”
From without the tent there now arose a confused bedlam of shouts, yells, threats and bickering. The hubbub mounted with every succeeding second. The volunteer camp was in a growing uproar. Something was clearly amiss.
Stillman stood stock-still for a long second, on his face a look of complete amazement; then bent low and darted through the tent flap, with the boy close at his heels. Shouting at the top of his voice, he took to issuing orders right and left; but such was the turmoil among the frightened volunteers, that scarcely a man gave heed. All about, men were running hither and yon like scared rabbits, looking for their weapons, and casting fearsome glances through the trees toward the open prairie to the north.
“Gad, there is a body of savages out there!” roared Stillman, dashing to the edge of the grove and gazing intently northward.
And as Ben Gordon looked out over the Major’s shoulder, an army of red horsemen seemed to rise out of the prairie, perhaps three-quarters of a mile distant. The line stretched far to right and to left, and every Sac brave was bent forward a little over his pony’s neck, like those that ride to the charge. Their coppery bodies glistened in the morning sunlight, and the long feathers in their hair streamed out defiantly. Some of them carried shields of buffalo hide, upon which they beat with a low, booming sound that was ominous to hear.
“Steady, men! steady!” called Stillman, as some of the nearby militia began to show signs of panic.
In the middle of the Indian line, Ben Gordon could now see, sat a sinewy chief on a white pony. This Indian’s appearance was wild and ferocious. Many plumes and feathers were in his hair. His face was covered with war-paint, red and black in fanciful designs, even to the nose, which was large and prominent. The head was covered with a warbonnet, a barbaric thing of vari-colored feathers, with two stubby, black buffalo horns projecting from it, at the temples. He was naked to the waist, and had a broad, blood-red scarf bound about his middle.
“Black Hawk!” cried Ben.
He saw the famed chief raise his hand, and then a wild cry burst from a hundred savage throats, a blood-curdling cry, so filled with hatred, ferocity and triumph that every man shuddered. Then the whole Indian line swept forward, like a moving red wall.
Ben Gordon felt himself recoiling, instinctively, but he swiftly and sternly checked himself. A volunteer to his right, however, threw down his gun and ran off through the grove. The boy could see, to his amazement, out of the corner of his eye, that numerous others were doing likewise.
“Ther’s thousands of ’em!” shrieked a panicky fellow, streaking to the rear.
“We’ll all be skulped!” screamed another, firing his gun wildly in the air in his blind terror.
“Er burnt at the stake!” a third bawled, his face distorted with fright, as he scurried away.
“Stand firm!” roared Stillman, his face gray with rage and suspense, “you infernal cowards!”
Ben Gordon, seething with anger, caught one of the fleeing men by the shirt collar.
“Get back there!” he yelled. “Fight like a man!”
“Out of the way, bub!” snarled the fellow furiously, his fearful fright giving him the strength of two, as he pushed the boy with great violence. “I’d ruther be a live coward then a dead hero.”
Nearer came the red riders. The boy was fearfully excited. The little pulses in his temple were beating hard, and he saw the charging Sacs as in a red mist. It looked to him as if they must sweep all before them.
To add to his dismay, he saw that the line of white defenders was growing steadily thinner. All over the camp frenzied volunteers, beset with an unreasoning fear, were throwing themselves on their horses and galloping desperately to safety. Stillman and some of the other officers ran frantically about, exhorting the fleeing men to stand firm, even thwacking the craven fellows with flats of their swords, in short, doing their utmost to rally the panic-stricken men.
All to no avail. Soon, almost the entire white force, hundreds strong, was milling about in a confused throng. Climbing posthaste on the nearest horses, they deserted their impregnable camp and fled southward in the greatest consternation, although the oncoming Sac horsemen were still upwards of a half-mile away on the open prairie to the north.
Thus, out of the whole detachment of three hundred men, there presently remained in the grove only Stillman, a few of his officers, Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three troopers, together with about twenty of the volunteers who had stood fast, in the face of the wild Indian charge and the equally wild panic in the white camp.
This pitiful remnant of the once potent white army took refuge at the northwest corner of the grove, near the creek, where the timber was thickest. The deadly muzzles of their rifles faced toward the green prairie to the north, from whence the screeching red horsemen were whirling in, like a dark storm-cloud.
“Hold your fire!” cried Stillman, as a half-dozen of the volunteers started a scattering volley.
The trigger of Ben’s rifle fairly burned against his finger, but he tensely awaited the command to shoot. Nearer, yet nearer, came the savage horde, and it seemed that in another minute the Indians would be upon them.
“Fire!” Stillman shouted, the single, sharp word of command cracking out like the snap of a whip-lash.
Thirty eager fingers pulled trigger at once. Flashes of fire rimmed the timber edge, and a cloud of smoke floated out over the lush prairie. The deadly bullets crashed into the line of whooping Sacs. Several ponies and riders went down. Three coppery bodies lay inert on the sod. Wounded horses, screaming with pain, galloped wildly about. The Sacs whooped with rage and fired back, those of them who possessed muskets. Dust and smoke mingled, and heavy with odors and vapors, drifted over the whole hectic scene.
When he finally pressed the trigger, Ben aimed pointblank at a tall Sac warrior. As the rifle spat fire, he saw the warrior no more. After that he fired as fast as he could, shooting at whatever Indian was nearest. The little pulses in his head were beating harder than ever, and he fought as in a wild dream, but nevertheless he fought furiously.
He remembered afterward that he could feel Jim Martin at his right and one of the other troopers at the left, while Stillman was posted only a few yards away. Where was Van Alstyne, he vaguely wondered? Great guns! Had he, too, fled the scene. Ben thought not. The Captain was full of blind folly, but he did not look the coward.
The crash of the thirty rifles was now so steady that it sounded like the roll of thunder. Mingled with it was the fierce yelping of the savages and the sullen, nerve-racking pounding of their war-drums. The whites, on the other hand, seldom shouted, but fought for the most part in grim silence. Bullets found their mark in the white ring also. Men were wounded, but they hid it for the time, bravely keeping their places among the defenders. Ben felt something hot searing his shoulder like a flame, but he knew that he was merely grazed and it slipped from his mind the next moment, in the excitement of battle.
But now the charging Sacs suddenly veered, and rode around the flank of the grove to the east, shouting their defiant war-cries with renewed strength. In a moment they had swept into the eastern part of the encampment, which had by now been practically deserted by the fleeing volunteers, almost the last of whom was a quarter-mile distant on the prairie, scudding madly for Dixon’s Ferry, teeth chattering with fear.
The little band of thirty whites in the timber raised a glad shout of victory. The ring of fire spouting from their guns had beaten off the men of Black Hawk—for the time being. But Major Stillman knew well enough that the attack would eventually come again. The second time it would be more difficult to beat back, as the wily Sacs could now creep up on the defenders from the rear, through the tents and trees of the grove.
Their skirmishers, slipping along the ground like red snakes, would press closer and closer, ever more dangerous. Hawk-eyed sharpshooters would pick off the helpless whites one by one. Gradually the little band of defenders would be cut down, caught in this tight trap, virtually unable to protect themselves against the skulking, well-hidden marksmen.
Meantime, the triumphant Sacs were busily engaged in pillaging the big camp. Raucous shouts and gleeful yelps resounded from the far side of the grove. Now and then there was a terrified scream, closely followed by a gunshot. The few white volunteers who had attempted to hide among the tents were being ferreted out and mercilessly killed and scalped.
One of the first of the screeching Sac braves to burst into the militia camp had been the young chief, Prairie Wolf. As his nimble pony whirled into an aisle between the rows of tents, the Wolf’s questing eye fell upon a strange scene. A stoutish, blue-coated army officer, pistol in hand, was fairly pushing what appeared to be a big Indian toward the northwest, with the evident idea of getting his reluctant prisoner to the whites in the timber by the creek.
What had happened was this. Captain Van Alstyne, at the moment of the Indian alarm, had been picketing his horse at the extreme south side of the grove, which was, of course, the side farthest removed from the point of Black Hawk’s attack. As he hurried back, toward the scene of trouble, he was caught up in the frenzied rush of the frightened militia-men.
For a few seconds the Captain stood as one paralyzed. He was completely dumbfounded at this unexpected cowardice of the volunteers. Great Caesar! hadn’t Major Stillman, not a half-hour since, vouched for these men as the bravest of the brave, able to whip their weight in wildcats! Then the stupefied officer sprang into action, his face ablaze with honest wrath.
“Stop!” he cried. “Stop, you yellow-bellied cowards!”
The infuriated man might as well have tried to stop a forest fire with a bucket of water. The volunteers, half-mad with fear, tore past him pell-mell, leaped on the backs of the nearest horses at hand, and streamed south across the prairie like startled deer.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” sneered one insolent fellow, “but I got urgent bus’ness at Dixon’s Ferry. See you later!”
Another quaking chap, wild-eyed with terror, whom the officer attempted to pull from his saddle, kicked him in the face; then galloped off crazily. The enraged Captain sped him on his way with a pistol ball that hummed by his ear like an angry wasp.
Realizing, at length, that his efforts to rally the insane mob were useless, the disheartened Van Alstyne turned sadly about and headed for the northwest part of the timber, whence came the sound of heavy firing. This meant, he knew, that at least some of the whites were putting up a resolute defence.
He had progressed perhaps one third of the way through the grove, when he unexpectedly came upon the deserter, Pat Fagan, whose presence, in the heat of the fray, he had completely forgotten. The desperate fellow, long since abandoned by his soldier guard, had worked free from the ropes that held his wrists; and was now striving frenziedly to loose his legs, also. Just as he did so, however, the Captain leaped forward and clapped his pistol muzzle to the ruffian’s back.
“Forward, march!” he ordered sharply; and Fagan, choking with rage at this untimely turn of events, had no alternative but to obey.
It was at this precise moment that the dangerous Prairie Wolf sped into view, astride his pony. His savage brain at once grasped the situation. This was the white renegade, ally of the Sacs, in the hands of the enemy. With a fierce whoop he pulled a gleaming war-hatchet from his belt, and sent it whizzing at Van Alstyne’s head. The unfortunate officer wheeled abruptly, as he heard the warning hoot. The whirling blade, keen as a razor, hit him full in the forehead with stunning force, and he fell motionless to the ground.
And thus perished the headstrong, but brave, Captain Van Alstyne, struck dead by a Sac war-hatchet at the battle of Stillman’s Run, which, aptly enough, was the name bestowed by contemporary historians on the disgraceful rout of the white volunteers.